Rugged Gay Cowboy Mountain

Two handsome rugged gay cowboys take some cute sheep up a rugged gay cowboy mountain and do rugged gay cowboy things like: carry a little lamb across a raging pulsating stream that spurts up white froth; slowly withdraw a thorn that has pricked raw the tender paw of a sheep amongst big thick erect columns of wood; erotically wash their naked bodies in the river and shave with their shirts off; heroically guard the defenceless sheep from vicious coyotes whilst moodily looking out into middle distance over thrusting mountain peaks covered with white creamy snow, holding their pistols and silently thinking of their Oscar acceptance speeches.

All this handsome rugged gay cowboyness gets to them so they start bumming each other.

Anyway they come down from the mountain and resume their rugged non-gay cowboy lives but can't forget the rugged gay cowboy mountain so keep nipping back for a bit of rugged gay cowboy lovin'.

One of them gets hacked off with it after a while well.. 20 years so goes to Mexico or something but gets himself killed which makes the other rugged gay cowboy sad and shed a rugged gay cowboy tear. Aww..

Over all I found it highly enjoyable in a purely heterosexual and completely secure in my sexuality way.

Handsome rugged gay cowboy count: 2
Moody looks and meaningful glances count: 8734
Chance of scoring if you take a date: high
Chance she will actually be thinking about you: low
Best quote: "I can't make it on a coupla high-altitude fucks once or twice a year!"

Philip Morris Inc

I had a friend who believed that Philip Morris owns a series of space stations orbiting the Earth that spots when someone is trying to give up smoking and quickly beams thoughts directly into their brains with some kind of ray beam:

"You can give up tomorrow. It will be a lot easier tomorrow."
"Cigarettes are your only friends. How can you treat them like this after all you have been though?"
"Go on just one – that is not really smoking."
"What the point of living exactly, if you don’t smoke."
… and so on.

How I scoffed!! "Puff.. satellites!" I mocked "In the sky! Ha - I don’t think so! Everyone knows Philip Morris employs an army of small invisible globins who sit on everyone's shoulder to tell us those things"

It turns out we were both wrong.

Through Pavlovian rewards and punishments smokers have conditioned themselves to smoke. The desires of a seasoned addict come from deep down, lurking in the murky misty depths of the mind just before the charred sign that says "Beware! Here be dragons!"

Telling smokers to give up because it makes them smell or poor or sick or ugly isn't going to work. They already know all this. They live with cigarettes. They know them intimately and the bruises they inflict - feebly making excuse for them "Oh it is nothing - I just walked in to a cold." or "I bought these in duty free - so I am actually saving money by smoking them."

Persistent smokers are in an abusive relationship with cigarettes. It is co-dependent and it one sided but is a relationship none the less.

To leave, like leaving any bad relationship, takes courage. A courage I have never really had. Until last night when my celebrity columnist who luckily doubles up as my hypnotherapist* came around and hypnotised enough courage into me to face down the fucker. A psychological equivalent of a refuge for battered smokers.

It is early days yet and my body is still oozing out the poisons. My head is swimming with liberty and all this extra oxygen.

But sooner or later smoking will find me, start trying to kick down the front door of the shelter - shouting up at the window its gruff voice:

"Open the door... I just want to talk..... Come on baby - I want you back!! I promise it will be different this time!"

I hope I can cope.


* and very good at it she is too.

The day the whale came

A fortress sky loomed above, imprisoning us in its ghostly weather. Thick grey walls of cloud cast a pale deathly light across the city. The inmates shuffled about like zombies - turning coat collars up against the chill and the fine icy drizzle which soaked you to your soul as it was swept up on a cruel wind hiding around corners, lashing out at the un-expecting and unprepared. Even the mightiest of umbrellas could not defeat it.

It had been like this for weeks - the sun's pathetic daily assault on the prison walls was over before it began. Its cheery face a distant memory. This wasn't bad weather - not a frightening storm of lighting - no blazing heat cooked us or deep cold froze us. No gale battered, no torrential rain, no snow blocked our way. Not weather you could stand up to, that if it did beat you at least it was in a fair fight.

No - this was evil weather. It didn't punch or kick. It didn't shout. It whispered - slowly nibbling away at your soul - slowly grinding down your will to live.

But then just as liberating spring seemed an eternity away something miraculous happened.

A whale came. And with her - she brought the nourishing sun breaking down the walls of cloud. She spouted water high, sparkling into the golden light that shone across the town. For the first time in weeks there were smiles on the streets of London. "Have you heard about the whale?" "There is a fucking whale in the river!" "A whale has come, a whale has come." "The whale is amongst us." people cheered in the bright winter sun.

"We must save the whale" people said but was it really ourselves we wanted to save?

But nature can cruelly take away as easily as it generously gives. The whale died - but she left the sun in our hearts so maybe it wasn’t all in vain.

A spout of water which sparkled in the air

Aww. Come to see the Queen have you? Fucking tourists.

Hair

I am going to grow my hair long like a big girl. Short hair - fuck that shit. I might grow a beard too, then I'll look like a God damn hippy.

The Isle of Dogs

A skanky scarred fox scurries across the forlorn urban wasteland. His hungry nose on the scent trail of a dead seagull’s stench blowing on a mild icy wind. He wonders amongst the rusty rubble of old London town's docks through the thin rain, but in vain. One of his cubs will die tonight.

By 1980 the docks of London had got themselves in a sorry state. Corruption of over powerful unions; the dock's incompetent depth that drove away dismissive modern ships; the constant bombing during the Blitz; Britain’s slow and painful economic decline throughout the twentieth century had all taken their toll. The docks were dead. Its fat, bloated, rusted, corpse slowing decaying in the rain on the Isle of Dogs.

It wasn't always like this: for over 100 years London was the biggest city on the planet. By 1900 its population was reaching for 7 million, still dismissive of the young upstart New York's 3 million.

For over a century Britain had controlled the largest Empire that man had ever known. The sun never set on the Union Jack, they said. A formable and forcible feat for a small rainy island off coast the north west coast of Europe.

It was all controlled by commerce and ships - lots and lots of ships. And more ships to protect the other ships. And then some really special ships to protect those ships. Oh and shooting anyone who disagreed - but mostly ships. Did I mention the ships yet?

At one point Britain controlled 90% of global naval trade. The ports of Glasgow, Liverpool and London were bursting with exotic goods from over the world. Teeming with trader's and sailor's tales of successes. London most of all - the centre of the universe.

London's longitude is still 0, 0, 0.

But time passes, stripping away what was, as it does to everything.

Next week: From the ashes - Canary Wharf.

Angel

Oh yes… London Bloggers. What a great idea. If you don't live in London you may not quite realise how important the Tube is.

Walking around London you get the impression that people have been just turning up over the last 2000 years and building things wherever they felt like and the streets are the chaotic spaces in between. You get that impression until you realise that, that is, actually, exactly what happened.

As a result getting around by car or bus is ridiculous. The average speed of a car around the centre of London is about 9 miles an hour.

So the Tube is the best way to get around. It is big and it is old and it creaks and it stinks and it doesn't really work but it does have character. It has history - it pre-dates the invention of the car; it got a starring role in a Sherlock Holmes mystery and I dare say many were conceived in stations when they were being used as bomb shelters during the blitz.

It also has a great map produced by a clever electrician who realised that, to produce a clear and understandable map that didn't look like a pile of psychedelic spaghetti, he would have to throw away all notions of space and time. Pure genius.

Looking at it you wouldn't think that Farringdon is 5 times closer to Chancery Lane than it is to King’s Cross would you? Most peoples’ mental map of London is based on the Tube map so its special spatial anomalies and abnormalities even fox experienced Londoners. "I not walking from Lancaster Gate to Paddington - it is fucking miles!" "No - it just a round the corner." "Really?"

Tube stops define where things are; the Tube lines define where you meet people. "Anywhere on the Piccadilly line is fine for me" someone might say or "The pub is 100 metres from Chalk Farm".

The Tube stations are the hubs of London. Pumping out the city's food – people, to nourish the bars and shops and restaurants that flourish around them.

What better way to organise London blogs than using the Tube map?

So there I am - Angel.

But I am somewhat disappointed that the first entry on Angel blogs is 888.com. How the hell can that be described as an Angel blog? People around here don’t spend their free time online gambling – they prefer to reveal wood and hold dinner parties to expound their liberal and intellectual ways.

This is Angel where the lonely virgin mountains of Iceberg lettuces in Tescos are left untouched but there is practically a riot when a new shipment of pre-packed packs of wild rocket salad comes in.

The local shops have a better grasp of where they are - not bothering to stock any papers apart from the Independent and the Guardian but pile the bunches of organic coriander high.

The cool bars and funky restaurants are filled with the beautiful people taking fashion to its outer limits, entering the realm of the ridiculous.

There is no local paper in Angel only a local glossy life style magazine called “Angel”.

Admittedly no where can compete with pure unadulterated wankery of Hampstead but it is pretentious up there. You know they all secretly vote Conservative. Here – this the birth place of New Labour – that strange brand of post socialist capitalism – “We make lots of money but at least we feel guilty about it.” And they really believe in it rather than thinking of it as necessary evil to keep those Tories from Notting Hill out.

The local politic is active, vigorous and very PC. Obviously it is a dead heat between Labour and the Liberals with the Tories not getting a look in. So the bars are open late, we have to recycle everything but wheel clamping is outlawed because, look, the au-pair finds it very hard to find a parking space when she is dropping little Tristan off at his violin lesson.

I am still finding my Angel feet. I am still not friends with a recently married gay couple who are thinking of adopting, I still don’t have a house in Tuscany that I am thinking of selling because I want to buy somewhere in Morocco or maybe the Shetland Islands.

But I am getting there. Slowly - on the Northern line.

Crystals

Something very strange happened to me tonight.

A big successful empire building IT director at the investment bank I work for has cunningly swapped empires for a smaller and less stressful but equally successful empire to wind down his career.

To celebrate he invited both empires out for drinks - he is the kind of man that doesn't even blink at a few k personal bar bill on a Thursday night.

I have been to lots of these things. I normally hate them - awkwardly talking to someone from a different team desperately searching for something in common, nervously smiling and examining the carpet pattern as a scary senior manager told their dull anecdotes.

But tonight was different - I genuinely laughed at the empire building director's story of the dead coy carp in his fish pond. And he genuinely laughed at my witty retorts as I held the old man's gaze. My retorts - not the sycophantic replies of a ladder climber but ones I would say to anyone. It felt good.

Then the kids - the early twenties - they all seemed so eager and enthusiastic to impress, hanging on my every word.

So why the change - why do I now suddenly feel can I cope - why do I now I find it easy - why do I no longer feel anally intimidated by these people. How do I suddenly fit in after all these years of not?

Then it came to me like a beam of light - crystals.

When you are conceived your mind grows like a pure diamond crystal. It's thin sharp shards reaching out like tendrils, stretching into a warm fresh virgin void, unrestricted by reality's hard and cruel embrace.

After 9 mouths a beautiful complex clear lattice matrix has formed. Then you are born - slowly over the crystal structure experience grows an organic mental moss. Years of failure and success knock off awkward corners. Occasionally major mistakes shatter big sections but the moss always grows back and over, ever getting thicker and thicker, forming a slick and dark hard malleable crust so eventually you can fit into any hole.

But down, deep down the crystal's rainbow light still reflects, illuminating the inner dome of yourself - of what you have become.

Then, just when you think you have thick encrustation that no-one will penetrate - someone somehow finds a way through.

They get in and find a new piece of the pure crystal. A part you never knew you had. Crystal no one has seen before.

Love is not in the heart - that just pumps blood. It is not in your guts - they just digest food. It is in your mind.

Down in that pure crystalline mind that has been untouched by others. That part you are unprepared to give others. A new part of you that you have just found - that is love - and exposing it to the light. A part you only give to your lover.

Life has taught me not to know - maybe it will react badly to the light - maybe it is so fragile that will shatter on the first knock- but then maybe it is hard crystal that will mock the passing time. Who knows.

All I know it is showering me with rainbows.

Nationalism

The last post made me think a lot about England and being English as I am technically half Cornish and my surname is of a purely nonsensical Cornish Celt origin.

According to childhood tales my grandmother knew someone who had a friend whose uncle's sister in law had a great grand mother who spoke Cornish once and they lived up Bodmin way. So fuck you - you Anglo-Saxon overlords.

I was even tempted to get the Cornish flag on BritBlog - that pitiful "me-too" flag of embryonic Celtic nationalism.

But where is King Arthur now? Dead that is where, his memory fading away like the ink on the late payment slips for his hired sword stained with blood of a hundred Saxons, made payable to the "Lady-in-the-Lake Knife and Mace rentals for every occasion."

No no- the body I mean - Wales or Cornwall? - well yeah - I don't know - who cares! Wayhay - lets get drunk - toasting pagan gods.

Hmm well.. that is the attitude that led to some sensible Dutch and German immigrants taking over the place isn't it? Lessons learnt eh? No? Hmm.... on my own with this one aren't I...

Outer Mongolia

I have a desperate desire for fans from Outer Mongolia but when it actually came to comment whoring myself on the Mongolian blogs I just couldn't do it.

It is true - I was worried I would feel some guilt for my inevitable initiation of the third big Mongol invasion of Europe but the main reason was I really couldn't think of anything to say. They seemed so very excited about George "W" Bush's visit; they were so very upset by The Lonely Planets new guide to Mongolia. I don't know anything about the state of Mongolian backpacking hostels or W's visit - what could I say?

I left the Mongol bloggers to fight their own battles and continued my lonely journey of blog validation by readership down a far darker road - to those charitable refuges for the blog needy - the blog registry sites. Surely, there, I could find some poor souls who would read my blog.

There are hundreds out there - but in the half an hour lull in the semi controlled chaos that surrounds me at work I only had time to for 2.

First up: BritBlog - a good name for a start - I love the word Brit. I am a Brit. I have a Blog. It works. I have heard some non-Brits try to use it as a term of an abuse, the silly fools.

BritBlog also do a good job filtering out the spam scum which is always welcome and there are some famous bloggers on there too. The Jonny "not as funny as he used to be” B and wow look! plasicbag.org - I haven't read his since back in the day when all this craziness started and still in the number one spot.

But more, much more than this they give you a little flag.

I went for the Union Jack.

Not because I am one of those one nation Conservatives. But then I am also in no way one of those neo English nationalists that seem to be appearing from the slow break up of the United Kingdom.... {sobs} Go on then! Leave! We don't care {England throws Scotland's clothes out of the window} and don't come back! {sob}… and we are changing the locks. We always knew you didn't love us {more sobbing} but we are keeping half the north sea oil - we found it together {England lovingly looks at a picture of an oil rig -starts sobbing again} but you can the keep royal family though {sniff} they are technically yours {sobs}.

England gets herself together and thinks - oh look - Holland. She is looking pretty hot these days and we always had far more in common.

Anyway that is not the reason I went for the Union Jack. It is because well... the English flag is shit.

It basically says - I am a psychopathic fundamentalist Christian crusader who is going to viscously knife any mother fucker that does not have the same imaginary friend as me.

And it is boring - a red cross - white background. Hardly Dali is it?

The Union Jack on the other hand - if you forget its imperial past is a jolly old thing really: colourful, decent pattern, interesting but not too much. Far better than a three colored simple boring bands every other country seems to have.

Probably one the best flags in the world with the exception of the Brazilian flag which is the best in the world. But I know which I will be waving in the final next summer.

So Brit flag for BritBlog.

Next: London Bloggers. Great idea I was going to tell you all about it but it is 1:30 and I really need some fucking sleep....

Too busy to blog

I haven't seen the monkey film or the gay cowboy film, with or without Japanese twins, I haven't watched any telly at all let alone good telly. I was at work for over 17 hours yesterday - I barely have time to wash and sleep at home at the moment. Boo

I suppose I could tell you about convexity on bond portfolios and its hilarious effect on one sided bumped curves for risk strips or an amusing tale about the dangers of multithreading programming... no? What about why the model that calculates Greek principles' prices is broken?

Hmm... you just want to hear about the time I accidentally grabbed a co-workers breast don't you?

Heartache

Inspired by Léonie's rather excellent post about exes I thought I would do the same. But, being a bloke, obviously I can't actually talk about such things. So in true male style I made a list.

The 13 best break up songs ever:

A Fond Farewell - Elliott Smith

The boy Elliott Smith didn't fuck about. Five beautiful albums, gets addicted to heroin then commits suicide by stabbing himself in the heart. This is probably the best - is it about breaking up with his girlfriend? Is it about giving up heroin or going back on it? Is it about stabbing yourself in the heart? Who knows? Brilliant none the less.

I'm Alright - Stereophonics

No break up list would be complete without at least one from the Welsh warbling wankers. It is all they seem to write songs about. Kelly Jones appears to be in perpetual state of heartbreak. Well maybe, Kelly, if you spent less time getting blow jobs off groupies your relationships might last a bit longer.

Karma Police - Brown Derbies

Karma may be all well and good. But the Karma Police - you really don't want to fuck with them. They go around with big metaphorical day glow sticks and beat the living crap out of your heart until it is a messy bloody pulp. And I reckon this is better than the Radio Head one.

Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole - Martha Wainwright

Ahh... the hormonal Martha. You can't beat it. Is it about her Dad? Is it about breaking up with someone after they found out she has been slagging it around? Or it merely an ode to her bum after a rather vigorous bout of anal sex? Who knows? - She is a woman and therefore a mystery.

Hurt - Johnny Cash

The master of misery Johnny Cash - damn his deep, gravelly voice, life worn - gets me every time. Great cover too.

The Sweetest Embrace - Barry Adamson

Speaks for itself. Nothing more needs to be said.

Abandoning The Wedding - Rolfe Kent

The way Rolfe gets the "Oh my god - it is really over {sob}" feeling without saying a word is remarkable

Black Heart - Calexico

God knows what the Calexico boys are on about - could be anything really. Whatever it is - it is something very sad and very bad.

I Woke Up With This Song In My Head This Morning - Bright Eyes

Yeah, do it - the fucking bitch. And burn her fucking shoes while you are at it.

Two Seconds - Laura Cantrell

Rebounds - don't do it kids.

Darker With The Day - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

I am still 100% sure this is not about a murdering paedophile. Hmm...

I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You - Colin Hay

102? - come on Colin - you can do better than that. Still... aww {sob}. You'll need chocolate for this one

Mr Brightside - The Killers

It's probably one of the worst feelings - the sick miserable rage you get when thinking of your lover with someone else. The Killers chaps seem to get it about right.

Well, maybe I have something

Tonight, I took yadayada's unwilling and utterly rubbish celebrity columnist out for dinner.

After hours of nothing she pipes up

"I shared a dormitory with Rachel Weisz at boarding school"

"Jesus Fucking Christ... and..." I splurt, leaping for my note pad.

"... and... and what?" she says disinterested, chomping on her bruschetta.

"And? And? Well.. err... err.. what colour were her pyjamas?" I say licking the end of my pencil.

"Hmm... can't remember"

"You can't remember? Ok, what about pillow fights? - lots of posh teenage girls in their underwear fighting on beds?"

"Oh, that was against the rules".

"Oh come on! You have to give me something"

"Well.. "

"Yes?"

"She made a very neat bed"

"Oh for fucks sake - you are rubbish!"

So there you have it - you heard it here first.

I haven’t got anything.

Nada, zip, zilch, not a thing, not a interesting conversation nor a socially quirky situation, no funny new friends, no strange stories, no flights of fancy, no wild wonderings of the mind, no tortured twisted plots, no cruel love gossip, not a tall tale, not a meandering musing, not even a warm and witty anecdote antidote.

I have nothing - just a long long tiring day.

Who?

I have just got back from a 3 day bender and I am sick and my brain is mush so pointless tabloid tittle tattle is in order.

So I happily introduce Yadayada's new spanking celebrity gossip section - "Who?"

Nursing hangovers with Guinness in the pub yesterday with my new and unwilling celebrity gossip columnist I am boring people talking about my blog.

"James Blunt? We went to University with him?" she says

"No!" I say

"Yeah he is always pretending to be 29 but he is really 31"

"No!"

"Yeah he was in the OTC and [insert name of mutual friend] had a thing with him!"

"A thing?"

"Yeah - a thing."

"No!"

"Yeah!"

"What do you mean - a thing?"

"You know - a thing"

"Shagging?"

"Don't know"

"Snogging?"

"Don't know"

"What kind of celebrity gossip monger are you?"

"I am not"

"Can I put this in my blog?"

"No"

"Ahh"

So there you have it - you heard it here first.

Next Issue: Jemima Khan